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by kiichu



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 20:59:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiichu/pseuds/kiichu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Noatak and Tarrlok left, their mother was alone for all those years. She misses her boys, but she holds onto the hope that one day, they will come home.</p>
            </blockquote>





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[legend of korra drabble/oneshot]

-

The woman pauses in her humming to swipe a stray braid behind her ear. Her tired, elderly eyes scan over her work; the threads are at last pulled through and weaved tightly through the fur material. It's almost like artwork, she reflects; making clothes for the water tribe village is the one pleasure she has left.

She has fallen into this monotonous routine for nearly twenty years. Some have claimed the life has left her; that the joy has completely left her spirit, and her eyes are empty.

"Kanga," they whisper, "is simply waiting to die."

She's had children approach her and ask why she appears lonesome. With the gentlest of smiles, she explains that she is merely waiting. If the questions continue, she will wave the conversation away and return to her crafting.

She knows it is meaningless to speak of those of the past; of her husband, who died of a broken heart after their elder son ran away. Her younger child left so many years ago for the city, presumably to find his brother; it matters not, for no one has heard from him.

Some nights, she sits in front of her igloo home for hours and hours, writing long letters - letters she wishes she could send, if only to know that the intended recipients are safe. 

Sometimes, she will weave some fabric, if only to keep herself occupied. The later they are sewn, the messier they end up; Kanga simply cannot keep her blank gaze away from the moon once it rises in the snow-dotted dark sky.

And sometimes, she wonders if her boys are looking at the same moon. 

The thought makes her weep alone in the dead hours of the night.

On one of her lonely days, the village leader approaches her. His face is grim, his lips pressed into a thin line and his eyebrows knitted together tightly. She stands up and sets the needle and thread down; she doesn't remember the last time she hadn't bothered to finish her craft. It is an essential hobby to get her through the day, but the look in her leader's eyes makes her understand.

This is more important than anything she has been doing during her years in solitude. 

Her boots pad through the thick snow; has it always been so deep? It makes her think of her sons playing in the mounds of the slushy frozen water, back when they were a family. 

A snowball, much like the ones her boys threw so many years ago, flies by her head. Her wrinkled features soften as she waves to the Water Tribe children. They tilt their heads and murmur to each other, but a few of them manage to smile back.

Kanga is resigned to the fact that whatever conversation she has with the leader might be one of her last. She is old and weak, and most of her being is already gone. Her words are few now, if they are even spoken at all; her words are limited, as are her days. It is only a matter of time.

And yet, surprise - something she has not felt in ages - flickers over her body and heart as the man leads her to two fur-lined sacks. The village often buries their deceased in such bags, drifting them off to sea in the traditional method learned from their ancestors.

And as far as tradition goes, the elders of the village usually see the dead off as they make their journey to the spirit world. Admittedly, though she is one of the oldest of the village, Kanga has never been requested to perform such a service. 

She is about to ask why the leader has called for her presence when she notices the faces poking out from the bags; it seems they have not been closed permanently yet.

Her legs trembling, she makes her way towards the burial sacks.

A hardened face, tan skin waxy. One ponytail hanging loosely in front of the face - long, brown locks tied together with a single blue bead. She doesn't know why she checks; the other two ponytails are, sure enough, behind the head. 

_"Moooommy... why do I have to wear these girly things?"_

_"Hush, Tarrlok. You look just like your father, and he looks very handsome in them."_

_"But I feel silly!"_

_"Tell you what - when you're older, you can choose whether or not to keep them. Okay?"_

_"Promise?"_

_"I promise, Tarrlok."_

It seems her precious baby boy never gave up his father's image, after all.

Her eyes dart to the other bag. Short brown hair, rough features... The skin is pale, but there is no mistaking the identity. 

_"Mom... Dad is taking me and Tarrlok on another hunting trip."_

_"That's wonderful to hear, Noatak. Make sure you bring a nice fat tiger seal for us."_

_"Will do. Mom... I love you."_

_"Noatak, where is this coming from?"_

_"Nowhere. I just... I love you, Mom."_

_"I love you too, Noatak."_

Her last conversations with Noatak and Tarrlok echo through her mind. She recalls the moments before the hunting trip, and when Tarrlok announced his departure for the city; when they both waved goodbye and never came back.

But now, they are here again. 

Her boys are home. 


End file.
